Around my 20th birthday, I realized I could name the make, model and year of every car parked along the street where I lived, but had only a vague idea of the trees.
I knew a maple from a birch from an oak, but had no real concept of a sycamore, beech or elm. This embarrassed me, more as a wannabe know-it-all, than as a wannabe nature boy. (I was familiar with the sassafras tree around the corner on Winona Boulevard. In my teens I’d visit it late at night to strip off leaves and chew them, hoping to mask the odor of alcohol on my breath.) (Forethought was not my strong suit at the time.)
I learned my street was primarily populated by maples – Norways and silvers with a few sugar maples in front of Brady’s house. The two small trees at the corner with the orange berries were mountain ash. Elms were known by their absence, the blank spots along the street where they’d once been in front of Deweese’s, Schippers’s, Burke’s and Brady’s houses (although the Bradys put in the sugar maples and the Burkes some variety of ornamental birch).
I lived then on the north side of the street and the neighbor to the west had a Crimson King, a species of Norway maple, in their yard. Now I live on the south side of a street and my neighbor to the east has Crimson King in her yard. Crimson Kings and blue spruces (my old neighbors had one in the back yard) were immensely popular in the northeast and Great Lakes in the post-war years. My landscape architect friend Pete call them “weeds” and wants to cut them all.
On a visit back to Rochester a few years back, I realized the urban forest tells a story as detailed as any one can find deep in the woods. Nearly all the trees on the street had disappeared. The Bradys’ sugar maples were still there and the Andersons’ Crimson King, but almost everything else was gone. It made the neighborhood look bereft and unhappy and reminded me it was my place no more.
What happened? Maple blight? Insect infestation? Storm? Most of the houses on the street were built in the ‘20s and ‘30s and the street was planted with maples and elms. Dutch elm disease took the elms in the mid-‘60s – I have vague memories of them – and most were not replaced. Then the intersection of age
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, an autumn snowstorm and the recession’s effect on municipal budgets shortly before my return visit did away with the maples.
When the trees were planted, very few species were represented; lack of diversity makes for a vulnerable ecosystem. When the elms died, there was no organized, municipal effort to replace them (Burkes and Bradys had acted on their own). Years later, when the convergence of unhappy events took out most of the remaining old trees, there were few young and middle-aged trees to give shade and character to the street.
It’s different in Burlington. We have a local non-profit (Branch Out Burlington!) tending diverse saplings a tree nursery at the University of Vermont’s horticulture farm; when they’re ready for the streets BOB! donates the trees to the city for planting.
It’s not all good. The forty-something-year-old crabapples along my street need regular trimming to keep them away from utility lines; it won’t be long before pressures on the city budget make it more attractive to cut ‘em instead of trimming ‘em. I’m told the city doesn’t want to plant new tress under power lines, for the same penny-pinching reasons.
Which just means another chapter in the history of the urban forest. Burlington, this particular clearing in the forest, has only been around a few hundred years. At some point, we’ll be gone and the forest – not the urban forest, just the forest – will return.
Reading the Urban Forest
Around my 20th birthday, I realized I could name the make, model and year of every car parked along the street where I lived, but had only a vague idea of the trees.
I knew a maple from a birch from an oak, but had no real concept of a sycamore, beech or elm. This embarrassed me, more as a wannabe know-it-all, than as a wannabe nature boy. (I was familiar with the sassafras tree around the corner on Winona Boulevard. In my teens I’d visit it late at night to strip off leaves and chew them, hoping to mask the odor of alcohol on my breath.) (Forethought was not my strong suit at the time.)
I learned my street was primarily populated by maples – Norways and silvers with a few sugar maples in front of Brady’s house. The two small trees at the corner with the orange berries were mountain ash. Elms were known by their absence, the blank spots along the street where they’d once been in front of Deweese’s, Schippers’s, Burke’s and Brady’s houses (although the Bradys put in the sugar maples and the Burkes some variety of ornamental birch).
I lived then on the north side of the street and the neighbor to the west had a Crimson King, a species of Norway maple, in their yard. Now I live on the south side of a street and my neighbor to the east has Crimson King in her yard. Crimson Kings and blue spruces (my old neighbors had one in the back yard) were immensely popular in the northeast and Great Lakes in the post-war years. My landscape architect friend Pete call them “weeds” and wants to cut them all.
On a visit back to Rochester a few years back, I realized the urban forest tells a story as detailed as any one can find deep in the woods. Nearly all the trees on the street had disappeared. The Bradys’ sugar maples were still there and the Andersons’ Crimson King, but almost everything else was gone. It made the neighborhood look bereft and unhappy and reminded me it was my place no more.
What happened? Maple blight? Insect infestation? Storm? Most of the houses on the street were built in the ‘20s and ‘30s and the street was planted with maples and elms. Dutch elm disease took the elms in the mid-‘60s – I have vague memories of them – and most were not replaced. Then the intersection of age
, an autumn snowstorm and the recession’s effect on municipal budgets shortly before my return visit did away with the maples.
When the trees were planted, very few species were represented; lack of diversity makes for a vulnerable ecosystem. When the elms died, there was no organized, municipal effort to replace them (Burkes and Bradys had acted on their own). Years later, when the convergence of unhappy events took out most of the remaining old trees, there were few young and middle-aged trees to give shade and character to the street.
It’s different in Burlington. We have a local non-profit (Branch Out Burlington!) tending diverse saplings a tree nursery at the University of Vermont’s horticulture farm; when they’re ready for the streets BOB! donates the trees to the city for planting.
It’s not all good. The forty-something-year-old crabapples along my street need regular trimming to keep them away from utility lines; it won’t be long before pressures on the city budget make it more attractive to cut ‘em instead of trimming ‘em. I’m told the city doesn’t want to plant new tress under power lines, for the same penny-pinching reasons.
Which just means another chapter in the history of the urban forest. Burlington, this particular clearing in the forest, has only been around a few hundred years. At some point, we’ll be gone and the forest – not the urban forest, just the forest – will return.
© Mark Floegel 2013